If I could, I'd wrap her in cotton

I was on the train yesterday evening, making my way home from work. It's about a 45 minute journey from downtown Boston to my stop, which itself is about a 10 minute walk to our home. Oh the joys of living in suburbia.

As usual, of the lucky ones on the train to get a seat, most were asleep or at least pretending to sleep. Pretending to sleep on a train is a tactic used by some to avoid feeling guilty enough to give up their seat to someone elderly, disabled or pregnant and is equivalent in my eyes to crossing the road to avoid helping someone who has tumbled face first down a tall flight of marble stairs, but I digress. I usually stand for part or whole of my journey, casting suspicious glances at those that are clearly faking sleep.

One gentleman yesterday clearly wasn't a faker. As the train pulled into a stop he remained asleep. As the doors opened, he dreamed. As they started to close, he woke suddenly, realized where he was, and attempted to make a bolt for the door.

Sadly, tragically, and painfully, he had failed to tell his right leg that it was time to get up. As his left leg strode his right leg wobbled before pressing the snooze button and collapsing beneath him. The rest of him, deciding to see what was going on, followed him to the floor.

The noise that came from the mouth of this poor soul will live with me for a long, long time. Quickly he picked himself up, looked thoroughly embarrassed, and stood by the door. Avoiding the glances of anyone else he patiently waited for the next stop, no doubt hoping that the floor would swallow him whole.

I tell you this because Alise suffered a similar but much more serious and painful fate, many years ago. Before we even met, in fact.

Alise had the misfortune to tumble basically face first down a tall flight of marble stairs. The pain suffered must have been incredible, and I know (because she has told me so) that bruises covered her legs for months.

Alise has told me this story, and I've been in company when she's told others. Usually I think to myself 'the poor girl, that must have sucked'.

Watching Mr. Floopydigit today though brought that incident back into my consciousness. For the first time, I think that I fully understood the pain that my sweet babymomma went through on that dreadful day. The very thought of it made me want to pull the emergency cord of the train, jump into the middle of the highway, flag down the first passing DeLorean (I know, I'd probably be there for a while), carjack it, set the date coordinates and push the throttle to 88 MPH. I'd jump back in time and save her, protect her, make the pain never happen!

And that, is my problem.

I've always been a little over-protective. Just a little. Since news of the alien broke though, I've become terrible and it's going to end in tears. Take yesterday morning, for example.

Alise was up, dressed, and functional as I left for work. I have that 10 minute walk to the station, followed by a 45 minute ride, followed by a 5 minute stroll to my office. Yesterday morning, for the whole time, I checked my email on my phone religiously. When I got to work I checked my email once more, before calling her in a panic.

'Hi love', she said as she answered.
'Are you okay??' I gabbed. 'I haven't heard from you yet'
'I saw you less than an hour ago', she said. 'I'm just getting ready for work'.
'So, you're okay, right?'
'Right'
'Are you still pregnant?'
'Still pregnant'

I'm terrible, and I'm going to get worse, and I don't know what to do about it. Anne Frank had more control over her daily movements than this poor girl. If I didn't have a terrible, morbid fear of cotton, I'd wrap her in it.